


Contact

by saltstreets



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: At the very least something's not going right, Lack of Communication, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Questionable Motives, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 21:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: Xabi looks at him thoughtfully, as if weighing his words. “You have been getting along with Guardiola,” he says finally.“I should hope so. A good relationship between captain and coach is very important,” recites Philipp like a schoolboy parroting dates, his annoyance with Xabi growing. Philipp is no stranger to talking around an issue, but he wishes Xabi would just spit it out.





	Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Heheeheh yet another one I started literal years ago. In my defence, this wasn’t so much ‘I forgot about it’ and more ‘I only just realised two days ago how I wanted it to end’. So…here? It's extremely self-indulgent in terms of the pairings and characterisation. Also not very nice. 
> 
> [Yet again titled after the Police; I’ve been on a roll lately.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ex-09RPA2hM) I may have already used this song for a fic title, probably due to the references it has to telephones. Why do I love putting landlines in my fics? The world may never know. This fic however features zero landlines and one (1) flat screen tv. Very modern!

 

When Guardiola arrives with all the inevitable whispers and expectations and the distinct gleam of silverware about his person, Philipp does not trust him. Not at first.

Not that that’s unusual for him. He’s never been what could be called an open character, playing his cards close to his chest and loath to offer more than he’s given, which tends to result in lengthy negotiation periods between meeting a person and actually getting to know a person. Double that if he wants to make _friends._

It doesn’t impede his professional relationships: with team mates and coaches and staffers he is polite and friendly and close in a working context. But there’s a heavy divide between working and personal. Philipp can name maybe four people from football whom he considers genuine personal friends. It’s just the way he likes to do things.

So when Guardiola arrives Philipp is interested, but doesn’t expect much more than the relationship he’s had with all his previous coaches: communication, cooperation, comprehension. Especially since Guardiola, the known aesthete intellectual, seems likely to be even more monkish than the usual. Sure, it’s also common knowledge that Guardiola is a bit strange, but most successful people are.

Surprising, then, when Pep turns out to be almost entirely different from what Philipp has imagined.

Philipp doesn’t offer more than he’s given in terms of a personal relationship, but Pep seems almost immediately willing to give Philipp everything, which puts Philipp in the suddenly awkward position of holding all the cards with the choice to reciprocate. He doesn’t exactly like it. He much prefers a slow, one-by-one exchange and construction of a relationship and being thrown everything at once has put him off balance.

He has a terribly sneaking suspicion that Pep has done this on purpose.

 

\--

 

Pep is a _toucher._ He wants contact: a hand on a shoulder or around the back of the neck or fingers grabbing at lapels and jacket hoods when he talks to a player. He wants to be in the space of whoever is on the receiving end of his eerily intent stare and confident words. He wants to touch, to feel, to impart. As if he can transfer his thoughts through his fingertips.

Philipp is not a toucher. Philipp wants to maintain an enforced ten centimetre boundary between himself and others on a normal basis. This boundary breaks down, of course, with his teammates when they are celebrating a goal or plotting out a play or working through training. But on an average civilian day? There is no reason, in Philipp’s mind, that a conversation should be accompanied with Pep’s hand gripping his shoulder or an arm wrapped around his waist. Philipp doesn’t really _mind_ the contact, he just sees no practical application. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable with it, just that it’s unnecessary. It’s not irritating enough to have a conversation about and Philipp figures that trying to extricate himself every time Pep slides into his space is far more trouble than it’s worth. Although…Pep acts the same with the entire team and some of the coaching staff as well, and maybe it’s just Philipp’s brain playing tricks on him but it does seem as though Pep puts in a particularly concerted effort to maintain physical contact with Philipp, seemingly at all times.

But Philipp lets Pep do things his way. He doesn’t try to wriggle away whenever Pep drags him in close to deliver a rapid-fire speech or slings his arms around Philipp’s neck for no apparent purpose. He lets Pep win that particular ideological difference, and then he becomes accustomed to it, and then just enjoys the feeling of closeness. It would be strange after a while for Pep to stop touching him. Pep beckons Philipp over and Philipp goes to stand right up against him, gazing together out onto the pitch and pulling the strings of the vast and complicated mechanism that was Bayern, four hands linked in power and vision.

 

\--

 

Xabi watches him closely. Xabi always watches everyone closely, even when he pretends not to. But Philipp doesn’t have the time to play games with him now. “What?”

Xabi assumes an expression of innocence. “What? What nothing.”

Philipp fixes him with a look. “You want to say something. I can tell.”

“I often want to say something,” Xabi says, cryptic and avoidant as always. “But that doesn’t mean I often should.”

“Well say it now,” Philipp dislikes being scrutinised, and Xabi has a way of making Philipp feel under the microscope.

Xabi looks at him thoughtfully, as if weighing his words. “You have been getting along with Guardiola,” he says finally.

“I should hope so. A good relationship between captain and coach is very important,” recites Philipp like a schoolboy parroting dates, his annoyance with Xabi growing. Philipp is no stranger to talking around an issue, but he wishes Xabi would just spit it out.

“I noticed, that is all.” Xabi’s expression goes a bit wooden and his voice a bit cold. “You have grown very close, you two.”

“I thought you didn’t have a problem with Pep,” Philipp says, suddenly more engaged in the conversation, picking up on a possible sticking point. “Despite your former club allegiances. I thought that you were interested in playing his style.”

“I am, yes, yes.” Xabi corrects him hurriedly with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Problem with Guardiola, because of what- Real Madrid? No, Philipp, I do not keep grudges. Or even, I have never had this grudge. I would not let any former clubs prevent me from playing with such a talent, you know this.”

 _No, you wouldn’t._ Philipp does know this. Xabi isn’t exactly the type to let himself be held back in any capacity by history. But there’s something here, still. Something that Xabi is edging around. Something elusive.

“I prefer to concentrate on what is happening now in this present. That is what I will be upset about.” Xabi continues, and there’s a look in his eye that is probably significant, but Philipp can’t interpret it.

Instead he just nods. “Alright. If you don’t have a problem with Guardiola, then...good,” he ends rather lamely, unable to come up with anything to say to Xabi’s oddly intent look. Philipp shakes himself mentally. If Xabi wants to convey some sort of deeper meaning then he’ll have to just come out and say it. Philipp has had enough of the strange secretive dance they’ve been dancing, the music for which only Xabi seems to be able to hear. He likes Xabi well enough, but the man is far too indirect for his own good.

Xabi seems to think so too, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He just smiles a bit ruefully at Philipp as if to say, _what can you do._

 _Well,_ Philipp thinks, _you can start out by saying what’s on your mind._ But Xabi won’t. And doesn’t.

 

\--

 

“He touches you a lot, and you let him,” Xabi points out in what is dangerously close to a non-sequitur during a separate conversation later that week. They _are_ talking about Pep, but only tangentially, and this is the first time Xabi has returned to their odd non-argument that Philipp couldn’t quite understand. Philipp doesn’t call him on it, but he does file away for later that Xabi seems to have been _stewing_. “You haven’t changed, just to him. With him.”

Philipp resents the implication. He frowns. “That’s just the way he operates.”

“Mhm,” says Xabi, and it’s alarming how much weighted meaning he manages to cram into that two-syllable sound.

 

\--

 

Pep has his arms around Philipp and Philipp lets him be there, actually enjoying being close against Pep’s side. He can’t help but glimpse Xabi out of the corner of his eye, and Xabi has a sour expression twisting his mouth down despite the roaring of the crowd and the easy win slotted away not two minutes before. Their eyes meet for just a second and Xabi’s lips curve up – _told you so-_ but the bitter cant of his expression lingers on.

“Philipp, Philipp, Philipp,” Pep is rambling joyfully in his ear, “Amazing, _grande,_ so good,” and underneath his elation, Philipp has an uneasy sense that he does understand what’s eating at Xabi after all, because he’s clinging to Pep and for the first time in a long while, Philipp _wants._

 

\--

 

It’s not a revelation that changes much in Philipp’s day to day life, the slow-simmering realisation that he wants to sleep with his coach. It only puts certain things in a new light. He’s rather more interested in the revelation that _Xabi_ might want to sleep with _him._ Maybe more than just sleep with. Philipp doesn’t know, and Xabi certainly isn’t telling.

In other circumstances Philipp might even have done something about it. Xabi has been stuck on the covers of various fashion and lifestyle magazines over the years for a reason. And Philipp likes Xabi. He’s clever and funny, and isn’t half as aloof as he likes to pretend to be in interviews. But he is good at closing himself off, and Philipp genuinely doesn’t know what he wants.

Not that he’s entirely certain what Pep wants, either. But there’s something self-sabotaging about the twist of Xabi’s mouth and the stories he tells when he drinks just a little too much that makes Philipp wary. The unknown quantity that is _Xabi Alonso_ has an explosive edge to it, something that is somehow both unbending and liquid that Philipp thinks will be difficult to work with. The unknown quantity _Pep Guardiola_ , on the other hand, is slightly less slippery.

And of course, Philipp says to himself in the cool, rational voice that has never let him down even if it sometimes makes him feel a bit uncomfortable, it is always better to engage when the other party has more to lose in the event of catastrophe.

 

\--

 

Pep is affectionate with everyone. Or perhaps affectionate isn’t the right word. Pep’s brand of forceful physical communication can border on the maniacal at times. Philipp doesn’t encourage it any more than he ever had, but he does make himself available. He lets Pep hug him and tell him how amazing he is, always just one step over the line of too intense. And he waits.

 

\--

 

Philipp is good at waiting.

 

\--

 

That’s a lie. Philipp _thinks_ that he should be good at waiting, because waiting is a useful skill. So over the years he has trained himself to be good at waiting, taught himself how be patient and be calm even when inside he’s fidgeting like a child walking past a sweet shop. It would be more accurate to say that he’s good at maintaining the appearance of waiting. He can force himself to, but it doesn’t come naturally.

 

\--

 

Philipp isn’t actually very good at waiting, not at all.

 

\--

 

When he corners Xabi at someone’s girlfriend’s cousin’s birthday party, or some sort of tangential event that he’s been bullied into attending, he’s far too sober. But Xabi is decidedly intoxicated and lets himself be shoved into a back room, his dark eyes glittering.

Philipp pushes Xabi back up against the door and kisses him, open-mouthed and fast. Xabi lets himself be kissed and kisses back, matching the pace with heat and Philipp’s careless hands against his chest with his own on Philipp’s waist. Philipp is still far too sober and when he pulls back, breathing hard, he takes in every detail of Xabi’s flushed handsome face, the perfectly cultivated stubble and the flick of hair that has fallen artfully over his forehead. He’ll remember every brutal, burning second of this later.

He notices the room they’re in, a sort of den outfitted with modern furniture and dominated by a large flat screen television. Orange-yellow light from the streetlights outside filters in through a gap in the blinds, but otherwise the room is dark save for a gaming system of some variety which blinks softly on a low, sleek shelf beneath the blank screen. Not that with better light there would much to see: the sofa is dark grey and boring, the décor equally uninspiring. There’s a coffee table with an empty glass on it, not even on a coaster, but that’s the only sign that this room has been used recently. The air is still and silent save for the sound of Xabi’s breathing.

“We should get back,” says Philipp, stepping away.

Xabi watches him closely before standing back from the door. “After you,” he says, and it’s almost mocking. His eyes are bright with drinking but Philipp doesn’t think he’s that far gone. Xabi doesn’t let himself go easily.

 

\--

 

Two days later in training Pep has his arm around Philipp’s shoulders and is talking at him animatedly, clutching him to his side like he’s trying to squeeze Philipp into his rib cage. Across the pitch Philipp catches Xabi’s eye and Xabi raises an eyebrow at him knowingly. Philipp stares back at him, and says nothing.

 


End file.
